BXBX NOVEL Chapter 169: Complacency
Their mere arrival to a field of battle is said to be enough to turn the tide of any conflict.
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Each of them are over level 40, a status that takes centuries of effort, skill and luck to achieve. They also have to have at least fifty years of spotless service under their belts before even being considered for the Vanguard position. It's said that the king trusts them to such a degree that he would leave his wife and daughters in their company for an entire month without a second thought.
He knows- everyone knows- that they would never do anything against the king's will. Their loyalty is absolute, unshakeable.
I've heard whispers that their devotion to the crown is so pure, so ingrained, that they would sooner end their own lives than tarnish the king's honor. But more than that, it's their strength, their discipline, their unity- everything that I once aspired to, now so far out of reach it's laughable.
What would my younger self think if she saw me now? Standing here, exiled to this cursed outpost, watching my idols torture some pathetic cooks?
Yes, they're interrogating- no, torturing- the cooks. One poor bastard is strapped to a chair, his face a bloody mess as one of the Vanguard soldiers methodically breaks each of his fingers, one by one. Another cook is on his knees, gagging as a soldier shoves his head into a barrel of water, only to pull it out just before he drowns.
The rest are bound and trembling, their eyes wide with terror as they await their turn.
One of the Vanguard soldiers finally acknowledges my presence and straightens up, his voice cold and detached. "Iris Thornclaw, leader of Squad 8. Is your team also affected?"
"Yes, sir." I reply curtly. "They're all sick as beaten up dogs. Can barely stand."
The Vanguard soldier gives a slight nod, not that I can tell much through the helmet, but I can feel the emotionless acceptance of my words. His armored gauntlets, stained with blood, glint menacingly as he turns back to the whimpering cook. The other Vanguard soldiers continue their work with clinical efficiency, indifferent to the screams and groans filling the kitchen.
To them, this is just another day, another task to accomplish for the glory of king and country.
I watch in silence as the soldier whose voice I now associate with authority lifts a knife to the cook's cheek. The blade is sharp enough to split a hair, and it glides effortlessly along the man's skin, leaving behind a gaping, bloody hole as his skin parts. The cook sobs, his entire body trembling, but he's too terrified to even beg for mercy by this point.
They've already broken him in every way that matters.
I fold my arms, leaning against the door frame as I take in the scene. There's a certain artistry to what they do, a precision that speaks of years- no, decades, even centuries- of experience. The man with the knife doesn't even flinch as he drags it to the other side of his face, and the cook's cries reach a higher pitch.
The soldier at the barrel is just as relentless, pushing the cook's head under water again and again, allowing just enough air for him to survive but not enough to keep his sanity intact.
Finally- after dozens of minutes- when the screams have turned to hoarse, pitiful whimpers, and the cooks are nothing more than broken shells, I can't help but notice that they haven't actually found anything useful. The pain they've inflicted hasn't brought them closer to the truth, and I find myself growing impatient.
"Are you sure this is the right way to go about it?" I ask, my voice less respectful than I intended. It's not a question born of concern for the cooks- I don't give a damn about them- but of practicality. This method of theirs doesn't seem to be yielding any results.
The soldier with the knife pauses, his head tilting slightly as if considering my words. Then, slowly, he lowers the blade and steps back, letting the cook slump over in the chair. His voice, when he speaks, is a low, mechanical rasp. "We're following standard protocol. Interrogation of all involved personnel is mandatory."
"Yeah, well, this doesn't seem to be working all too well..." I say, trying to remain as respectful as I can muster. They don't exactly need to provide a strong reason for executing an 'exiled', abandoned soldier like me. "I think we should consider another approach. What if we have got an actual intruder on our hand? An outsider with malicious intent?"
The room falls deathly silent at my suggestion. The other Vanguard soldiers stop what they're doing, their veiled heads snapping in my direction in sync as if I've just spoken some forbidden, vile sentence.
The weight of their stares forces my body to involuntarily freeze on the spot, and I can feel the goosebumps creeping up onto my skin but I do my absolute best not to avert my eyes from their gaze.
I know what they're thinking; an intruder? Here? For the first time in centuries?
Impossible.
The Aegis with the knife doesn't move for a long moment, and I wonder if I've crossed some invisible line. Then, almost too quietly, he mutters, "The well…"
The words hang in the air like a death sentence. Everyone's attention shifts to the door leading outside, where a giant well sits at the center of the courtyard, a seemingly innocuous structure that suddenly feels far more sinister.
My heart begins to pound as the implications sink in. If someone tampered with the well, then this isn't just some random food poisoning. This is an attack- an invasion. And we didn't even see it coming.
Complacency. The quiet killer. We got too comfortable, too lazy, thinking that nothing could ever happen under our watch because it hadn't happened in so long.
This is also the reason why the kingdom didn't bother rearming the traps and defenses that were triggered by dumb animals and even dumber soldiers over the centuries. Since there have been no precedent of enemy invasions they just ate up resources, resources that some bureaucrat with his accounting book in hand decided were no longer worth providing.
We let our guard down, convinced of our own invincibility, and the enemy found their opening.
A well. In the middle of a military outpost that houses hundreds of soldiers, including the five Aegis Vanguard superhumans.
I can't help but let out a mocking laughter aimed at myself and my allies.
We are so incredibly incompetent.
They simply poisoned the well sitting comfortably in the middle of all of us. That is, if I'm right and they did indeed do that.
"Call the healers. We need to get as many soldiers combat ready as possible." One of them says, while another answers; "they've already exhausted their mana reserves and are recovering."
"Then let One investigate the well while the rest of us four secure the perimeter."
"Alright."
"GRRRROAARRR!" "GRRRROAARRR!" "AWOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!"
But before they could move, a cacophony of mighty howls and roars reverberate through the room, freezing everyone in their tracks. The sound is so powerful, so raw, that it feels like it's shaking the very foundations of the building. All the soldiers present tense up, their hands instinctively reaching for their weapons.